


If The Kids Are United

by raelouise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 80s AU, M/M, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:57:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raelouise/pseuds/raelouise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This Is England-inspired/80s!AU in which Liam is the skinhead with a secret and Zayn, the psychobilly pretty boy, is the epitome of everything he’s not supposed to desire. A dangerous love story unfolding on the bleak Northern streets of Thatcher’s England, where friends are family, ready with their fists, and tea and cigarettes are the life blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: racial slurs, homophobia, violence, possibly obscure references you may need to google

Zayn keeps his chin dipped in from the wind as he walks, intently watching the scuffed toes of his creepers over the monotony of the pavement rather than facing up to anyone’s unfriendly gaze. There’s usually somebody undesirable about of an evening- even if it’s just a middle-aged bastard with prison tattoos greying in his wrinkles and misinformed views on Zayn’s living conditions [no, he and twenty other family members  _do not_  share a one bed counsel flat]. Four or five fights in and Zayn’s learned that it’s better to simply sink into his leather jacket, collar plucked up over his jaw like a T-Bird, because scuffles don’t end so well when thirty-odd year olds inch machetes out of their bleach-splattered jeans. 

Unavoidably, there’s always some fuckers at the opening of the underpass. At least two of them, if not double that. Teenage skinheads, but the rotten sort with sawdust for brains and a cutting repertoire of slurs. Tonight, he spots them before they see him- flicking cheap cigarette ash and laughing with all of their teeth on show, hands slapping to drawn up thighs. Something hilariously fascist having just tickled them, Zayn’s sure. There’s no other path to take though, not if he wants to make it to Harry and Lou’s place before his greasy bag of dinner goes cold. So, he fumbles to light up a fag, breathes deep and marches onwards. 

“Paki scum!” They exclaim with utmost originality, all four in unison, “Oi! Elvis weren’t a fucking paki, lad!”  

Zayn does nothing more than grind his teeth and note that he recognises each of them. The ring leader, Andy, who was in his class all through primary school; Gazza and Smith, his alarmingly ugly, acne-scarred sidekicks and Liam, the new kid. He’s a bit of an anomaly, since not many people willingly move to their grotty town, but Zayn’s made his judgements based on who Liam quickly fell in with. Harry, who Zayn fondly considers both odd  _and_ endearing, had cocked his head and mused that Liam had unexpectedly soft eyes considering his choice in companions- _like a puppy in steel-toed boots and a crisp Ben Sherman_. Zayn doesn’t risk a close enough look to verify Harry’s claims. He barely risks blinking out of fear that they’ll jump him in the split second that his eyes close. They don’t, but they do pinch their noses and waft away an imaginary stench.   

“Fucking stinks of curry ‘round ere now, ruined me night!” Andy yells at Zayn’s back and Zayn has to tuck his fingers in tightly against his palm to keep from showing him a middle finger. He’d only end up with a black eye for his trouble and he’s had enough of those. 

Harry and Louis’ shared flat is in a foreboding tower block- battle ship grey concrete piled up towards the smog of the evening sky. Rusted metal railings; uneven lace curtains hanging at grimy windows, stairways that stink of sour tramp’s piss- three of them Zayn has to trudge up to reach the right door. But it’s  _almost_ his home and Zayn forgives it it’s downfalls when Rita answers. She’s a grinning vision in layered tulle and crimped blonde hair- delighted that he’s finally arrived. And there’s Louis behind her, sides of his head freshly shaven, smiling so wide Zayn imagines his cheeks probably hurt. 

“You got the chips, duck?” He asks hopefully- and then he and Rita usher Zayn inside, slinging their arms around him in hugs and thawing him out from the bitter English cold.  

As always, there’s a pot of Tetley’s tea brewing and Harry’s buttering slices of bread in the kitchen when Zayn goes through, the curly haired boy dancing to a Soft Cell song on the radio and swinging his knife around in time to the electronic back beat. He’s wearing nothing but a hand painted  _Fuck Maggie_  t-shirt and socks. Zayn doesn’t question it because often, Harry wears nothing at all [despite the insistence that he’ll catch his death; Zayn pointing out the ominous damp patch creeping along the ceiling]. Their flat isn’t in very good shape at all- but who can afford anything inhabitable these days?  

“Zayn!” Harry shouts, abandoning his buttering for a cuddle. “Your walk up ‘ere alright, eh? No cheeky cunts?” His green eyes are too bright with concern and he’s got gentle thumbs working against Zayn’s cheeks. Zayn assures him with a lie and fakes a perfect smile.  

They all settle on the single sagging sofa to eat Zayn’s chip shop feast. Louis small enough to snuggle up in his boyfriend’s lap, fitting like a lock for a key, and Rita with her ankles folded neatly atop Zayn’s thighs. There  _is_  an extra arm chair, but they dragged it from a skip one day, discovered an infestation of wiggling white maggots beneath the cushioning and simply left it in the corner to fester. Besides, their preference for piling together makes it easier for them to share the cod and chips from the same paper and for Zayn to prod at the spots patterning Rita’s tights. They sup from mismatched mugs of steeped tea and moan a fair bit about the war, and the shocking rise in the price of cola cubes- 

“It were fifteen pence for a bag last week, and now it’s twenty! Thievin’ twats!” Louis laments- waving around a half chewed chip for emphasis- and Harry soothes his long greasy fingers through Louis’ fringe, murmurs against the peach fuzz above his ear. 

Then they snog, with Harry’s broad hands lovingly cupping Louis’ cheeks, and Rita and Zayn toss the last soggy scraps of fish batter at both of the boys. Zayn doesn’t mind at all though, not really. Harry and Louis have been in love since they were children [Louis little, Harry even littler], taking each other on dates to the swing park and the swimming baths on a Sunday and Zayn loves them for it. For the predictability of these evenings. Domestic, unassuming... Up until a mad banging rattles the front door from it’s hinges and a broad irish accent yells in through the slot of the letterbox- 

“Oi! Open up, yer shower of cunts!” 

“Niall!” Rita squeals and dashes from the couch to answer- the layers in her skirt bouncing as she goes. Rita’s always thrilled to see everyone and it’s quite charming. 

When the two of them reappear, Naill’s got one arm slung around Rita and a footie tucked under the other, a smile as broad as her’s for good measure- “Match!” He declares, “Over on the rec- don’t think we’ve got even teams but Aiden’s got a bottle of vodka, so?” 

Nobody thinks to mention that it’s near pitch black outside [and they don’t comment on Niall’s attempt at Flock Of Seagulls hair, either]- they just leap into action, wriggling into various Fred Perry jackets and in Harry’s case, his Levis and oxbloods, too. Matches lead to parties which lead to waking up on someone else’s bathroom floor and knowing that your weekend has officially begun. All that Zayn lives for, especially now that adulthood’s snuck up on them without their consent. He helps out at his Dad’s shop of a weekday, Harry has his after-school job in the bakery and Louis spends his days on a factory floor. Zayn doesn’t like to dwell on that though- that they’ll be their parents in no time at all. Their depressed little patch of England is sad enough. 

Outside, they play their game to the rhythm of their favourite ska bands. Bouncing on the soles of their boots, back and forth, racing through the foggy shadow with their sights set on the ball. It’s clumsy and yet glorious- with skidding tackles and sneaky fouls; parroted chants stolen from the terraces. Over and over again, Harry fails to take control of his overly long limbs and ends up caked in mud; Niall doubles over laughing instead of attempting saves and Rita scores even more goals than Louis [which is a first, and Harry has to placate his boyfriend with yet more kissing and a cheeky hand to the bum].   

Rita and Perrie, Zayn’s sweetheart of an ex, take to a victory dance and a bellowing of  _Come On Eileen_  loud enough to raise the neighbors. Or the police. They’re hushed only when Aiden’s litre of vodka is thrust towards them, then all of them- the girls, Zayn, Niall, Harry, Louis, Aiden- tumble down to sprawl over the slant of the damp hill. Swigging with sour faces, embracing and arguing over who was on whose team exactly. Cigarettes are passed around, bellies become cushions and the lot of them hush up to contemplate the murky sky. Zayn can’t decide if he prefers this impromptu get together in the crisp, clawing air or a cuppa in Harry and Lou’s love nest. They both fill his heart up to the fucking top.  

“Eh, are there any parties or shit?” He asks eventually- not wanting the night to end, the easy freedom of it. 

“Nick mentioned somethin’?” Harry pipes up- looking over to Zayn from where he’s attempting to roll a cigarette paper despite being able to see nothing at all, half of his tobacco lost to the folds of his jeans. 

It’s quite a walk to Nick’s but walking is what they do. The streets they know like the lines of their palms are  _theirs_ , as though they possess each crack in the pavement, each spat wad of gum gone rubbery beneath the soles of their Doc Martens. They lot of them are a tribe, a knot of misfit togetherness and swinging arms as they curve around corners and take short-cuts over thigh-high fences. None of them have much, not the riches supposedly devoured by Thatcher’s generation, but on the right nights, the beloved clothes on their backs and their knocking wrists are pure gold.  

[Zayn half remembers a quote from school- something with Oscar Wilde about gutters and stars- and even though the memory of it is fractured, he just knows it fits.]   



	2. Chapter 2

By the time the seven of them arrive, Nick’s party has already spilled out messily past his front step, with quiff’d girls and mohawk’d boys being far too blatant with a couple of sweat-scented spliffs and some poor goth fellow spewing his entire stomach lining onto the can littered lawn. Their night is still promising is what Zayn draws from the sight- ready to grab a bottle of warming whiskey and commandeer the record player as soon as they’re inside. They nod and smile at total strangers in the door way and then split off in five different directions.  

Harry and Louis seek out a recently vacated spare room- Harry mumbling about Louis’ sporting prowess against his lips, Louis pinching at his hips and telling him to just get on with it already.  _Other people’s bedrooms aren’t for romancing_ , he reasons,  _they’re for quick fucks and the thrill of knowing anyone could stumble in and get a filthy eyeful_. Harry can’t keep himself from agreeing with that, from moaning out loud at Lou’s words. They suck noisily on each other’s necks as they shuck down their jeans and then Harry pins Louis up against the wall, wastes no time in taking him [spit slicked]. His urgency matches the three chords of the punk song thudding up through the floorboards.  

Niall finds the only bowl of peanuts in the whole house that’s not doubled as an ash tray and gets himself acquainted with those- alongside the pretty, busty girl who was perched on the nest of tables beside them; Aiden slinks into a corner with the rest of his sort- the boys with Morrisey hair and Robert Smith-emblazoned t-shirts; Perrie fixes her inky make up in the bathroom mirror and Rita just launches herself at Nick, wrapping around him and fluttering giggly kisses over his faux-frown. 

“Oh god, the town idiots have arrived!” He groans and she spanks him and assures him that he adores them, really.  

As planned, Zayn swipes an almost full bottle of scotch, thankfully forgotten on a kitchen counter, and throws burning mouthfuls back as he winds his way through to the record player. Nick’s a local radio dj and he has quite an impressive record collection because of it- a record collection Zayn prefers to the man himself. Nick can be a right pretentious bastard and not in Harry’s accidental, fumbling sort of way. It’s forgivable though, when Zayn can leaf through his music, pick out a Cramps album he doesn’t own and slip it beneath the player’s needle.  

Lux Interior, a cigarette and someone else’s whiskey and Zayn’s zen- more than content to sit back against the wall and watch the party unfold from the edge. On some night’s he’s in the thick of it, high and horny, but on others he’s much more interested in just laughing at everybody else’s expense. Guys slathered with creamy black lipstick from their noses to their chins, drunk girls’ attempts at being alluring resulting in tumbles into ornaments and Niall- zip of his jeans down before he’s even gotten to where he’s going- rushing past and giving him two thumbs up. 

“You’re an animal!” Zayn shouts at him, laughing. 

“Yeah Zayn, I love you too!” Is Niall’s unfazed reply. 

Briefly, Zayn’s thoughts drift to pulled down zippers and knees and dirty-wet-heat but when they get complicated he drinks them away. Gets thoroughly intoxicated instead, until he hits the point of seasickness. A horrible, cumbersome nausea. None of them ever learn though, always over-reaching their limits so that they need to thrust their fingers down their throats and demand the drink come back the way it went. Then they shiver for hours and the world tips upside down every time their eyes shut. They always swear it wont happen again. Until the next Friday night.  

He’s whining and painfully dizzy when Rita drops down beside him but he distantly senses that there’s something conspiratory about his friend’s movements. He wonders if she has bread maybe- squints at her, looking for a loaf. He doesn’t see one, just full red lips.   

“Hey Zayny,” She whispers, reaching out to smooth her hand against the blonde flash in Zayn’s hair, “We need to head out the back way, alright? You sober enough to walk, duck? Hop the fence?” 

Zayn groans because no, he’s probably not. “Ugh, why?” 

“Just some shit,” Rita says quickly, thumbing between Zayn’s eyebrows. She’s trying too hard to seem like her cheerful self.  

“You’re a princess, you know Rita. My New Romantic princess- but you gotta tell me, kay, no secrets?” 

“Andy and the others, they’re out front,” The girl grimaces, folding because it’s Zayn and he has such shiny eyes, “They’re trying to cause shit and you need to get the fuck out, okay?” 

Zayn starts to stumble to his feet. His limbs are out of sync and he sways dangerously on his crepe soles once he’s upright but Rita is right there beside him to clutch his arm.  _Just Rita..._  If they’re sneaking off, why aren’t the others all appearing, ready to fence hop, too? Zayn ignores the churning in his belly and hopes desperately for a sudden onset of sobriety. 

“The others are out there, aren’t they? They’re gonna fight them or some shit? Rita?” 

“I dunno...” She lies, weakly. 

“Fuck no, they’re not getting beat up for my honor. If that Andy wants a fight, it can be with me, yeah?” 

Zayn pulls away from the blonde girl. She doesn’t really try to stop him, just follows close behind with the tips of her fingers skittering against his sides and a panicked heart in her chest. Zayn would take a bullet for any of his friends but he’d never want them to do the same. He’s proud but more than that, he’s protective. Fierce for his family, blood or otherwise. They’re all the same way- which is why Harry’s flexing his biceps, why Louis’ his wingman, why Niall’s swearing like a sailor and why Aiden- the goddamn vegetarian who doesn’t even have sausage and bacon with his breakfast- is readying himself for a blood bath.  

 _Oi oi! ‘Ere’s brown boy! Get him!_  is the first thing Zayn hears as he lurches out of the front door-  maybe Rita or Perrie’s screech of  _no!_ after- before he starts throwing return punches for the ripe pain splitting his jaw in two.  

The fighting is brutal; heavy boots swinging towards ivory teeth and quick knees ramming up into skinny guts. Zayn receives the brunt of it but his friends are not unscathed and in the very centre of the storm, it’s about killing or being killed as far as the boys are concerned. The girls fall into each other hysterically as soon as they see the first splatter of gore against the drive way and that’s when the rest of the party gathers. Zayn can hear the rush of them- cheering as bones crack and thud into the meat of muscle.It’s hazy though, the whooping and clapping, and when strong arms curl around his chest, Zayn can’t quite tell if they’re Harry’s, saving him, or Andy’s, wanting to choke him. Either way, the press of them makes his lungs ache, his breathing sting 

Zayn ends up splayed out on the floor, his battered face a scary sort of sweet. He’s bloody, bruised and blinking up at a not so familiar face- Liam, the new kid,  _the puppy in the crisp Ben Sherman._  Zayn can’t recall if it was him who threw him down onto the gravel but in the time before his vision swims out, he just can’t imagine that the kid could bring himself to do it. Liam is far too pink cheeked and horrified. Concerned almost, in a way that doesn’t fit the crop of his hair and the battle cries of his friends. Zayn tries to ask him but his jaw grinds painfully and he gives up on that nonsense.  

Instead, he falls fast asleep and wakes up hours later in a hospital bed. He has a bandage strapped across his swollen nose and all of his friends are there, swarming around his bed, waiting with bated breaths and polystyrene cups of cold tea. The girls are tear stained, the guys too. Harry’s  _Fuck Maggie_  t-shirt is daubed with crust the colour of Rita’s favourite plum lipstick and his boyfriend’s eyebrow is decorated with little white steri-strips. They all smile though- as fluorescent as the hospital’s artificial lighting.  

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Louis coos and sniffles, “You gave us quite a fright there, duck.”  

“Sorry,” Zayn croaks, sounding like he has a heavy cold, “Could I have a cuppa? Fuck, I ache.”  

It takes three cups of tea, some jam on toast and a thorough once over by the nurse before he’s allowed to leave. They want to ring his parents but his gang insist that they’re his his family,  _his brothers and sisters_ , and as much as the nurse side eyes them she does scrawl her signature at the bottom of his forms. Zayn is terribly polite and apologetic- feeling like a fool for ignoring Rita and falling face first into eight fists, but nobody- neither the nurse nor his friends- seem to think he has any reason to be. 

“They’re scum, the dirt ground into the bottom of me boots,” Aiden grunts as he slips off his oversized cardigan to wrap it around Zayn, whose leather jacket is too thin considering he’d been unconscious not long ago. 

 Everybody nods in agreement, crowding Zayn like body guards as they set off on their journey home [Zayn wants to hug each of them, as tight as anything, but his bones are still too delicate]. It’s just a little later than dawn and the wind’s whipping fresh with early morning dew, the air bright enough to highlight all of their wounds. Blueish bruises, busted knuckles and the gummy blood around their lips. It’s their usual walk of shame, creeping past the dying glow of the street lamps, but with heavy hearts rather than the beginnings of hangovers. Limps, too.  

“Hey, you know what was weird?” Niall asks, after a stretch of soothing silence. “That Liam one- he didn’t want to be there, I swear. He didn’t throw a single punch, I don’t think.”  
  
“He panicked when you went down, Zayn,” Rita adds, using her skinny arms to shield herself from the chill, “Then he hung around on the corner, watching when the ambulance came even though all of his mates got off.” 

“Yeah... He didn’t wanna fight, just got in the way once or twice with them soft eyes,” Harry murmurs, turning back to gage Zayn’s reaction. 

Through his splitting head ache, Zayn remembers Liam’s haunting gaze. The last thing he’d seen the night before. It’s an uncomfortable weight on his chest, which hurts already from it’s pummeling, so Zayn just arches one eyebrow, “Strange that. Maybe he were on somethin’, or he’s just a coward, eh? Anyway, got a fag for me? And I love you twats, by the way. Loads.” 


	3. Chapter 3

The very next day two bricks come crashing spectacularly through Zayn’s living room window- barely missing his littlest sister as she sits combing the hair of her Barbie doll. Her scream is shrill, sudden hot tears bubbling over her chubby cheeks, and Zayn doesn’t think twice before scooping her up onto his hip and leaping to swing open the front door. He doesn’t catch them though, not even their backs- only hears the hollow echo of their boots thudding back through the entry. His little sister’s snot dampens the front of his Meteors t-shirt and her legs cling like a monkey; Zayn presses against the door jamb and rubs circles over her back. His wounds are still fresh enough to hurt as he scrunches his face up in frustration.  

“Shit,” He exhales. “Sorry, I know, naughty word. But you going to be okay to sit on the sofa with some juice, Safsaf, while I sort it all out? Don’t go near the glass, lovie.” 

He fixes her a cup of diluted cordial and strokes her tear-wet hair back from her eyes, kisses her forehead, before finding newspaper to wad up and stuff into the jagged holes in the pane. It’s a short-term solution, but the best he can come up with. Then the mess of the glass- he doesn’t have a clue where his mum keeps her dust pan and brush so he protects his hand with the sports pages and plucks it all up from the carpet. The bricks come last. They have _paki_  [of course] and  _go home_  scratched into them with black felt tip pen but Zayn barely pays it any attention as he dumps them in the backyard.  

“Wish I’d been sober enough to fucking break their legs,” He mutters to nobody at all, has to refrain from sending his fist hurtling towards the wall.  

Instead, he sits with little sister in his lap and together they watch hours of crap on the telly. Cartoons become game shows and his little sister falls asleep. Small and snuffling. He squeezes her, despite the aching, and feels far more emotions than any teenage boy could really manage.  _It’s not fair_ is what he wants to think- but nothing is fair, so the argument’s a weak one. Everyone’s struggling and cold and hopeless. It’s not fair that Harry wont get to go to university; that Louis’ stepdad has never forgiven him for coming out; that a fucking brick nearly collided with sweet sleepy Saf.  

Zayn’s mum cries when the rest of his family arrive home and when she scoops up Saf from Zayn’s lap, swaying with her, she murmurs over and over that Zayn is her brave boy. Zayn blushes under her praise and nudges his lips to her powdered cheek- 

“Just a brother.” Is all he says.

“The best brother.” His Father insists from beside his wife, in a tone that tells his son not to argue, before slipping him a handful of coins, “Go find your friends and stay safe.” 

Zayn almost feels like himself again once he’s checking the bus time table against his watch. Just a normal lad going to his mate’s place to share a few cans, some sweets thanks to his lovely Dad’s generosity. Cola cubes for Louis, those chocolate buttons with the hundreds and thousands for Harry... He even manages a cheery grin for the bus driver, a nod of thanks before he jogs up the  stairs to the top deck.   

It all drains from him when he pauses on the top stair and realises that Liam’s sat half way down the bus. All of the seats bare other than his. He’s staring out of the window at first, faint frown lines narrowing in towards the bridge of his nose, lips set in a line. He must hear Zayn breath though because his interest shifts over in seconds. His face remains passive but Zayn doesn’t miss the thick bob of his Adam’s apple.  

“Hello Zayn,” He says, let’s the three syllables just hang between them on a thread Zayn can cut or catch.  

Zayn takes a seat a few ahead of Liam and twists backwards in order to keep watching him. He feels prickly all over, far more sensitive to the cheap brown and orange fabric of the seats than he’d usually be. 

“Liam, right? Can I help you? Were you hoping to actually break me nose this time?” Zayn narrows his eyes and steadies his voice by curling his fingers around the metal back of his bench.  

“Oh God no- I’m... is your face okay? Is all of you okay?”

“Are you bein’ serious right now, mate? You put me in hospital!”

Liam’s frown lines deepen and there’s a fluttering twitch in his jaw- “That weren’t me. I was there but...”

“Yeah. You were. With Andy. You also ‘appened to be there when he was yelling paki at me, eh? Probably launched one of them bricks through me window, too. Do us a favour lad and leave me alone.”  

“Bricks?” Liam pales, “I know nowt about bricks, swear on my Mum. I’m not that kinda guy, mate.”  

Despite logic, Zayn finds himself wanting to believe the other boy’s protest. He just  _knows_ honesty and it’s what keeps him from turning his back on Liam.  

“Look. You can say no, but wanna come for a cup of tea or somethin?” Liam rubs at his neck, stretches, sighs.  

“I need to pick up some fags first.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. And then The Caf?”  

The Caf is a favourite haunt of the town’s teenage population [and it’s builders, and OAPs] though it’s nothing much. Just a counter, six sets of booths and yellowing paper that’s peeling at the corners. Still, it’s the most inviting doorway on it’s row of the high street; always warmly well lit, smelling like home cooked meals and cheap instant coffee. They order two plates of egg and chips when they arrive and then slide into their seats with their eyes skittering this way and that. Zayn guesses that Liam doesn’t want to be spotted fraternizing with the enemy and he feels much the same. There are a crowd of skinheads in one corner but Zayn recognises them as a harmless bunch and Liam he doesn’t seem to recognise them at all. 

Zayn tips the salt shaker, spilling granules out onto the grubby table cloth and then drawing patterns in the pool of them. He’s waiting for Liam to speak first, expecting the boy to launch into some sort of explanation or apology. He doesn’t, and the lull between them makes Zayn antsy. He lights up and looks up, his expression not particularly kind- 

“If you’re not like them, Liam- like Andy and that- why are your mates with ‘em? He’s a fuckin’ dickhead. It’s not like you can’t ‘ave noticed.” 

“I didn’t know anyone else at first- like, he found me? On one of me first days here. And once you’re in... you know, you’re sort of in.” 

“What’s that, once you been selected for the National Front you get shot for desertin’?” 

Zayn expects Liam to splutter- he doesn’t expect Liam to bow his head and cup his hands around his face. Hiding. Liam is broad, Zayn can’t help but notice- shoulders wide beneath the check of his shirt, solid wrists, thick fingers. He keeps hearing Harry’s husky voice in the back of his head, however, reminding him that the boy’s eyes are not what his biceps would suggest. It’s mostly awkward because Zayn’s in the habit of hugging people who seem to come over all sad [or at least lovingly cuffing them over the back of the head]. 

“Look- the other night, I think you were out of it. Out of it even before we got to fightin’, so I wont blame you for forgetting. But near the end, I was holding you up. Your eyes kept rolling and your mates were all bleedin’. That little pretty one, half of his face were red, it were the fuckin worst. And yeah, I ended up laying you on the floor...”

 Zayn sucks at his cigarette until it’s near enough just drooping ash between his fingers.  _Those anonymous arms, when his breathing had stung_. 

“Then you watched for the ambulance, yeah?” 

“Aye. I’ve been worrying since. I ain’t seen Andy, or Gazza and Smith. Didn’t feel right. I’m not like that Zayn, I know I’ve said it but am not. I just like Two Tone.”  

Their food arrives and the waitress slides them a side of buttered bread, too. Their fried eggs have neon yellow yolks, ready for bursting and the chips are thick, cut the same way Zayn does them for the girls’ tea. He stubs out his cigarette and sucks on his bottom lip, skating the prongs of his fork over his yolk so that it spills over.  

“Do you like The Specials, yeah?” He asks, to distract himself, and Liam actually beams.  

“Yeah, mate.”  

“Wanna listen to  _A Message To You Rudy_  then, don’t ya?” Zayn smirks and he definitely feels pleased when Liam chokes on a chip- 

“Oi, you cheeky arse! Besides, did you not notice Elvis’ been dead since the seventies?” 

“Hush up and eat up, lad,” Zayn scowls, but the corners of his mouth are rather uncooperative- they want to curve into his cheeks, mirror Liam’s. 

They get to eating in a companionable, half-smiling silence. It’s as though the two boys who entered the cafe are not going to be the ones leaving it. Their fingers even brush when they both reach across for the bottle of brown sauce; Zayn has to close his eyes for a split second, grab a round of bread instead.  

“You’re still a dick for yelling at me in the underpass and shit you know,” He ends up saying- mouth full of quickly slapped together chip butty- “You’re not a dickhead for ‘elping me last night, but you’re not proper off the hook.”  

Liam lays his cutlery politely across his emptied plate and weighs up Zayn’s words.  

“Can I fix it at all, Zayn? Pint? I’ll pay?” He suggests and then adds, “Pay for some songs on the jukebox, too?” 

“Alright,” Zayn sighs after swallowing. He pats his pocket to check for his cigarettes and slides from his seat, “You drive a hard bargain, Liam. The Swan do ya?”


	4. Chapter 4

Unsurprisingly for a Saturday evening, the small back street pub is heaving. There are chattering crowds clogging up the entrance and all of the stools around the tables are taken- even the church pew that stretches all the way across a a wall. It’s Zayn’s local though, has been since he and Louis were about fifteen and found The Swan _’_ s policy for checking IDs to be alarmingly lax. Thus, he’s gotten quite used to having to battle to buy his beer and slot himself into a suffocatingly small space. It’s a comforting suffocation- especially with the newness that is skinhead Liam almost touching to his side. 

“C’mon,” He tilts his head towards the bar and Liam follows behind him as he negates a path through drunkards and dry humping children; little girls all buzzed on being out at the weekend with the rude bois they’ve been eyeing at school.  

They have to head towards a mirror to reach the bar and Zayn can’t steal his curious gaze away from the two of them in it’s reflection. He’s slighter than Liam, shorter and more narrow. Daintier than he’d care to admit in comparison to the robust planes of Liam’s body and he thinks that if Liam were to wrap his hands around his waist, he’d swallow it up.  

“Question,” Liam begins, having to lean in over Zayn’s back in the crush- his breath hot and distracting over the lip of Zayn’s collar- “This place is alright, yeah? Nobody gives you shit?” 

The quiff’d boy rolls his eyes and side steps a portly gentleman to rest his elbows upon the bar top, reserving them a spot- “Nah, I don’t get any trouble ‘ere. You lot go The Red Rose usually, right? I wouldn’t step foot in there.” 

“It’s a bit rough,” Liam concedes, a head tip of something which Zayn suspects might be regret. Liam is naive, Zayn decides. Maybe it’s something to do with being new in town- not having it’s every inch mapped out and understood. 

“Aye,  _a bit rough_. Might gut me and sell me organs on the black market kinda rough. Anyway, you said you were paying though, so chop chop m’lad! Money out!”  

They eventually get their pints of whatever lager is cheapest and find themselves tucked into a narrow spot, wedged between the entrance to the girls’ bathroom and a table full of crusty punks [who smell worse than the toilets]. Liam smiles shyly over the head of his beer and Zayn watches the bubbles fizzing out in the foam of his, both hands clasped around the glass. Their soles stick to the floor and their elbows knock and Zayn can’t shake the irksome feeling that the ambience is that of most of his first dates. Stilted silences, matched glances, Liam’s lips dampened by his first swig of his drink. 

“The bricks you mentioned before- I should of checked, no one was hurt right?” Liam asks timidly, once their pints are almost empty and the quiet between them has dragged on too long.  

“No- well, my baby sister, they nearly clipped her but missed. She were shaken up though, and it’s not gonna be cheap for us to replace the window. Second time this year, as well, mate.” 

“That’s terrible, I mean it. That’s horrid, puttin a little girl in danger, like.” 

“I’m supposed to be her big brother, you know, keep her safe. I can’t always do that. Fuck my swollen nose and my scrapes, if that brick had touched her, I wouldn’t of been able to live with myself is the truth of it.  _Go home_ the brick said but this is our fucking home. My roots, my Irish family and my Pakistani family, they’re everything to me, but I’ve barely step foot out of this town. It’s just... stupid. Come on though, no dwelling Liam- bar again, and then outside maybe? I need some air.” 

Where the inside of the pub was packed up into the corners, stuffy with strangers, the unimpressive beer garden is pleasantly empty and everything is gleaming wet from a rain shower- the sky still heavy, another brewing [the brittle smell of England in the air from it]. Zayn knows a spot that’ll keep them dry, though. What looks like a little shed- three wooden walls, a rickety roof and one small bench. His name is scrawled over the walls in various spots- Harry, Louis, Aiden, Niall, Perrie and Rita’s too. Cartoons and hearts and in-jokes which Zayn reads over with a small huff of a chuckle before dropping to sit.  

He’s waited out whole storms in the little shed before; friends piled into laps, a few spliffs, a jug of cider and the rock ‘n’ roll clap of thunder. Games of eye spy, brilliant sing-a-longs and Niall laughing until he’d almost suffocated on his own joy. He’s slow danced in the rain with Perrie ebefore he fingered her behind the bins, most romantically, and peeped at Louis blowing Harry. Witnessed Louis almost biting Harry’s dick off after a startling slice of lightening and let Harry cry into his t-shirt without too much laughing. That one had become a local legend...

Zayn doesn’t even realise that he’s fallen so far into his soft focus memories until Liam tapping him startles him into a jump and his pint sloshes over his fingers. The pads of the other boy’s fingers are warm and rough in the most lovely way and Zayn’s belly flips slightly. Shaking off his soaked hand, he offers Liam a sweet smile; breathes the other boy in- the strong angular lines of his jaw, the proud column of his throat tucked into the top buttons of his shirt- as he does. Liam’s admiring him too; his fine bones, his dark forest of lashes, the bruises brushed over his golden skin. They both still and flush but their eyes linger, regardless. 

“Hey Liam- do your mates....” Zayn starts and pauses, trying to pluck the right words from the dark sky, “Do your mates... know how you look at boys, like? Cus that’s like, one of their things ain’t it, rampant homophobia? That’s a lot of people’s thing, come to think of it, but nazi twats especially.” 

The night is getting cold, but Liam’s laughing is even colder. One of his rough fingertips touches to one of Zayn’s bruises- the one textured by grazing, too, just beside his nose- and he slowly shakes his head. Zayn sees that his eyes are gleaming as though they’re slicked with the rain fall and he  _almost_  writes poetry about it, like Harry would. Harry would analyze it, Zayn just admires it. 

“My pretty mate, the one with the blood you know, all on his face. When his Dad found out... I never seen blind anger like it, yeah? He ain’t spoke to Lou since. It breaks Lou’s heart, I know. His Dad went so low, saying stuff about how he was going to infect his little sisters with sin...” Zayn takes a deep drink but his mind keeps going- “Hey Liam- you like Two Tone, yeah, but you like feeling safe too, don’t you? Throwing out them slurs before someone chucks ‘em at you?” 

The heavens open then, as though they’re a cliched scene in the sort of soaps Zayn’s big sister obsesses over. A rush of scripted rain drops cascading down in sheets that spark up from wet floor and stampede over the roof. They’re safe though- only their toes out beneath it; Liam’s Docs and Zayn’s creepers both sat in lamp-light-orange and black puddles.  

“You’re talking lots.” Liam mumbles, “But you... you have a point, yeah.” 

“You look braver than that shit, Liam.” 

Liam shrugs his broad shoulders and tightens his grip on his pint, “How brave would you say I looked, Zayn?” 

“Brave enough to rescue the Pakistani kid from the middle of a fucking fight, love. And then kiss him in the pub the next day, maybe.”  

Liam actually smiles and shakes his head at his own lap- “But cowardly enough to have to finish me second pint before hand? 

“Could do with finishing mine too, really.”  

So they both swallow their pints in long gulps; both arch to set the empty glasses down at the same time; both feel their lungs tighten in panic before their mouths collide. It’s clumsy to begin with, clicking teeth and a shooting pain through Zayn’s nose, but the intentions of Liam’s tongue are wonderfully tender and the span of his hands over Zayn’s shoulders is steadying. Something in it makes Zayn feel as though the other boy is fearful of breaking him and Liam  _is_  solid all over, it’s all the more obvious when he’s so close, but it’s a reassuring sort of weight that Zayn secretly longs for when he’s got to walk the streets alone. The taste of him, too. Egg and brown sauce and beer, which should be disgusting but only makes Liam seem like less of a stranger.  

The kiss steals something from Zayn, something fleeting that Liam swallows as he breaks away. Perhaps his voice, because when Liam says  _hey, didn’t I promise you a song from the jukebox?_ he just sort of nods and let’s him sweep him under the protection of his arm. More of a sweetheart than any skinhead Zayn has ever known, Liam bundles him quickly through the downpour and swipes his lips across Zayn’s temple, just before they slip back through the door. Into the warmth of the pub which feels like a hug.  

“Up close you have flecks of treasure in your eyes,” Liam whispers and Zayn can only think to say- 

“Number forty four, please, love.” 

And then they just hover, too shy to dance as the The Specials play, but Zayn thinks of stars and gutters again. 


	5. Chapter 5

“You went on a date with _Liam Payne_?!” Harry exclaims for what must be the tenth time, shaking his head in the most bemused manner- knots and curls bouncing.  

His hair is an uncombed tangle today, which is always the way when Harry’s feeling like he might like to be an artist. He looks like one, wearing another hand painted t-shirt and sucking at his bitten lip as he loops thread tightly. He’s locking together a boiled needle and a pencil and there’s an open tub of black indian ink, a crumpled scrap of paper on the table with five different sketched swallows [of varying symmetry] for reference. Zayn’s trust is laid out there too, along with his hand, he supposes- since he’s about to let a sixteen year old boy permanently mark his skin. Harry had looked all eager and earnest though; ink in hand and big green eyes on show-  _Louis wont let me, Zayn_. Three beers later, his choice of record in the player and Zayn had relented.  

“It weren’t a date. I just wanted to hear his side of things, right?” He sighs, all patience where someone else might have a snarl.  

“He wined and dined you!” 

“Fuck’s sake Harry, it weren’t a romantic candle lit meal, it was egg and chips and a couple of pints!” 

Harry grabs for Zayn’s lighter to disinfect the needle once more. “And a kiss,” he says, looking at the tiny tongue of fire rather than Zayn’s rapidly reddening cheeks. “You kissed  _Liam Payne_ , sidekick of the lad who’s been yelling  _paki_ at you daily for the past year.”  

Zayn rubs deep circles into his forehead and remembers too late that there are bruises there which are inflamed still. He winces, and groans and  _God_ \- “Aye. Or maybe it was him kissing me, bit of a blur.” 

“And it were lovely? Blurry and lovely?” 

“Are you going to keep up with the questions, Harold, or am I gonna be tat’d up at some point today?” 

“Oh right, yeah.” Harry can at least take a hint, bright boy that he is, “You still want this swallow, yeah?” 

“Please, love.”  

Harry makes quick work of drawing out the bird on Zayn’s hand, but the actual tattoo takes a tedious amount of time. Hundreds of dots, hundreds of needle pricks. Lots of Harry humming and frowning when he pokes his home made rig back into the ink pot, letting the thread soak up just enough of the black. It stings, but Zayn’s hurt so much recently-bruises over his skin, hidden bruises over his bones- he handles it as though it’s second nature. A burn he’s faintly fond of. It’s nice, too, that he’ll have this from one of his best friends.

Louis arrives home just as Harry’s adding the last few dots to the swallow’s wing tip and Zayn sees the flash of _oh fuck, I need to get this done so that I can tell Louis!_  in the the younger boy’s eyes. He doesn’t get to have the secrets that Liam keeps clutched to his chest, but he does get to have Louis lunging at him from behind and squealing down his ear- 

“Oh my God! You let him! You crazy twat- looks sweet though!”  

“Almost as sweet Liam’s lips, eh?” Harry smirks before Zayn even opens his mouth to greet Louis, and Zayn literally feels the other boy’s jaw hit his shoulder. 

“What?” 

“Zayn met Liam on the number sixty yesterday evenin’- they went The Caf and The Swan. There was food and drink. That’s a date right?” The words tumble too quickly from Harry- obviously rushing before Zayn can deny anything. 

“And there was a snog, yeah?” Louis checks and although Zayn’s looking at his hand rather than either of them, he can  _hear_  the raise of Louis’ eyebrow. “Bloody Nora! That’s a fucking date, that is.”  

“Oh fuck off, the both of yer, cheeky cunts,” Zayn sighs- with no real venom- “I’m gonna go wash this, yeah? Thank you, Haz, it’s beautiful.”

He kisses the top of Harry’s hair and then heads off into their bathroom. He’s not expecting much; the porcelain is all chipped, there’s just a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and they’re always forgetting to buy loo roll- but there is, thankfully, soap. He holds up his hand in the mucky mirror first, to get a look at the swallow from a different angle, and then carefully washes over the ink with plenty of warm water. Looks again when it’s clean and bright and bites his lip to keep himself from smiling too big. He loves it. It’s so  _them_.  

“Ink link,” Louis pokes his head around the door to beam, crinkly-eyed, “He ain’t done a bad job ‘as he, me little duck?Anyway- we’ve got an invite to Rita’s tonight, match on tv, you in?” 

“Are yers gonna give me shit?” 

Louis kicks the door open further, getting a proper look at Zayn. His gaze is studying but soft. “Not if you’d really rather we didn’t, mate. Eh, be careful though. Cus, you know. Nazis, bit risky I always say.”  

“Is that your life motto, Louis?” 

“Nah!” Louis gives Zayn a wink, “My life motto is _cake, cock and fuck the cops_ , I think. C’mon though- shop first! Sweeties, Zaynie!”  

They always make a stop off at the shop on their way to Rita’s- even get her a bottle of her favourite wine if they can pool together enough change. Zayn still has his dad’s thank you money jingling in his jacket pocket so he forks out for the wine and a paper bag of pick  _n_  mix for the lot of them to share [chocolate mice, flying saucers, foam shrimps and sherbet pips] and receives a kiss on each cheek for his trouble. A look of mild disgust from the shop assistant too, which makes him poke out his tongue; feel fourteen again. The burning bird an inch up from his wrist and the scent of sweets are all he could want from the evening, really.  

Up until Louis suggests they race all the way to Rita’s- because then he  _really_  wants to be the fastest runner, too.  

“Last one there kisses neo-nazis!” Louis shrieks as soon as the shop door has shut behind them and Zayn claps him around the back of the head before pelting off; wine bottle thudding against his thigh, joyous laugh leaping from his chest. 

They run like children skipping last class, or perhaps chasing after the rumor of something dead around the back of the housing estate. The air feels thick with nostalgia, the last of the evening’s sunlight amber over the streets’ usual washed out grey. It’s the crystallized freedom of an innocence they keep forgetting; something they lose a little more of after every nine-to-five shift or blood splattered brawl. If he could bottle it and funnel it into the ink of his next homemade tattoo, Zayn would.  

He flies ahead of his best friends and they let him- eventually stumbling, slowing and reaching for one another’s hands to stroll together instead. They shouldn’t really, but once Harry’s long fingers have wrapped around Louis’ there may as well have super glue on their palms. Everywhere’s relatively quiet, it being a Sunday, so the two of them feel safe enough.  _Cocky_  enough for Louis to nuzzle Harry’s shoulder and bite playfully at the folds of white fabric folded up from his bicep.  

“Reckon we could sneak away for a shag at Rita’s?” Harry wonders aloud, looking scandalised when Louis shakes his head- 

“Footie Harry, footie before fuckin’.”  

“Remind me again why I love you, wanker?” 

“Prettiest lad in England, innit.” 

“Aye, probably- though Zayn’s not so- where’s he got to, actually?” Harry asks and squints into the distance, a tremble of anxiety under his ribs, “He wont get into any trouble, d’ya reckon?” 

“What’s gonna happen between here and Rita’s, we’re ten minutes away?” Louis shrugs but Harry’s not happy so he tugs him along, “C’mon, Haz- we’ll him catch up, eh?” 

They find Zayn tucked behind a wall, crouching so that only the very tip of his quiff shows above the red brick. He’s flicking uselessly at his lighter, not quite managing to hold the trigger tight enough to make it flame, and the cigarette between his lips is shaking. He shoots them both a grin around it, teeth bared as though his night’s not been ruined, but his eyes are dead. The tangible nostalgia shatters and the street fades back to grey.  

“Just needed a breather,” He lies and then laughs in that icy way Liam had before slinging his lighter at the pavement and enjoying the  _crack_  and spark of it, “Why did I kiss him? He’s a fucking dick.”

“Explain mate?” Louis drops straight to the ground and starts rubbing at Zayn’s knees, “You seen him or summat?” 

“They’re down the bottom,” Zayn gestures vaguely to the end of the long road they’re paused on, “That old office block with the metal stairs, you know the one? Spraying shit on the wall. He can’t spell  _National Front_ , but he can spell  _faggots_ , so that’s good to know.” 

“Oh...” Louis cringes, “Oh mate...I, you want us to go fuck ‘em up?” 

Zayn just shakes his head, sags further down the wall and bursts into ugly tears that neither Harry nor Louis have seen him cry in years. Probably not since they were in junior school and Zayn fell from the roof, breaking his arm in three different places. It’s all snot and coughing; a croaky chant of  _it’s not just him, it’s not just him, it’s fuckin’ everything_ that neither of them know how to deal with. The tears sting as they spill over Zayn’s healing face and he hates himself for not being able to stop them. He feels like Saf, but he doesn’t have her excuse: she’s not much more than a baby and he’s supposed to be a man. 

“Shall we get you to Rita’s, duck?” Louis asks gently, scooping Zayn into a brotherly hug and then heaving him up from the floor, “C’mon, let’s go watch the football and get pissed, eh?”  

At Rita’s, Zayn curls up alone at the far end of her couch and hogs the wine but nobody makes any attempt to stop him. He doesn’t even enjoy the sour syrupy taste but he slugs it straight from the bottle anyway; focuses hard on keeping his breathing even and pretends as though he can follow the match as he does, despite his vision sliding out of his focus. He can’t make out the colours of the kits and when his team wins, Zayn doesn’t find the energy to cheer- not even when Louis reaches across to squeeze his shoulder and include him in their celebrations.  

“I’m sorry everything’s gone to shit, Zayn,” Louis whispers, falling sideways so that he’s pressed up to his best friend, small and soft, “I’m so sorry- we’ll make like your bird and fly away, eh? Or better yet, I’ll find a double bass and you can be the front man of that psychobilly band you dream of?”  

“Shut up, Lou.” Zayn replies- feeling like an idiot for ever hoping he could get anywhere beyond their town. 

Louis let’s it roll off his back because he understands hopelessness, And because Zayn’s clammy hand has snuck out from his balled up body to cling to his hip. “You wanna sleep?” 

“Please. For a long time. Yous can pile on top of me though, if you must.” 

“We probably will.”  

“I hate how much I love you fuckers,” Zayn sighs- his eyes closed before the three of them echo the sentiment. 


	6. Chapter 6

Zayn spends near enough the next week sleeping.  

First he sleeps off his wine-induced hang over, then he sleeps off every thought and feeling that pokes at him. He begs off work sick and festers in is own bedroom- in the sour stench of boy sweat and the clouds from his cigarettes; using up fags that are practically butts for their last weak thread of nicotine. He’s too overcome with unplaced misery to even shower and it makes for a sorry sight- his quiff limp with grease, his chin scruffy with bristles. Occasionally, he drags himself downstairs to butter toast and brew tea and the lights of the kitchen are blinding; the attention from his little sisters suffocating. 

All that makes Zayn smile is the swallow inked over his hand. It becomes as familiar as a freckle but more special than that and when he lays on his belly, he rests his hand on the pillow and tilts his head just so in order to see it. Imperfect lines and Harry’s heart. If he squints and wiggles his little finger, the birds wings flutter and he takes to winding his hand up above him and having it swoop and loop past gig flyers and posters tacked to his walls, the bird more adventurous than Zayn’s been since he risked eating egg and chips with Liam. Then he tucks his right hand beneath his scratchy cheek, the tattoo becoming a worry a doll for when he sleeps.  

On the Thursday afternoon [at some time around four] Zayn’s bedroom door creaks open but for a second nobody appears. Still in bed, hiding behind a Spiderman comic, he hopes that it’s just his mum checking in on him. That she won’t feel the need to stay.  _Have a little talk_. It’s not though, it’s Harry. Zayn spots the maroon of his boots first, then the swing of a brown leather satchel. Harry clears his throat, and Zayn can picture his awkward dimpled smile, but he doesn’t come inside until Zayn grunts  _alright Styles, lemme see you then_.  

“Your Mum stopped me to give me these,” Harry says by way of greeting, shuffling inside of Zayn’s bedroom with a plate of mince meat samosas in hand. “She actually said I’d probably need sustenance if I was hoping to get through to you, and also that I should crack open a window.”  

Zayn scowls but doesn’t quite pull off intimidating with the comic splayed open in his lap. “Aye uh, she’s probably got a point. Sorry.” He mumbles, wriggling up from his slump and rubbing crusted gunk from the corners of his eyes, “I feel even more grubby now, in front of you, Mr. Fresh Faced Schoolboy. Pass the food over though, love. Mum knows me bloody weakness, doesn’t she?” 

“Your mum’s cooking is the best, and you still look beautiful,” Harry shrugs, all sincerity as he hands over the plate before simply reaching across the bed to shove at the unlatched window.  

“You’re getting too long,” Zayn says, not quite as complimentary, “And I’m absolutely not beautiful Haz, I’m vile, but do you think you could bring yourself to give us a cuddle?”  

If Harry’s repulsed by his friend he hides it well, quickly tucking himself in beside him under the bed covers as they both dig into the samosas. Zayn’s comfort food of choice, especially home made. Harry’s a lanky thing, still mostly made up of bones that he manages to wedge into Zayn where it hurts most, but he smells of fresh air and of Louis. Of all the good things beyond Zayn’s four walls that he’s been denying himself and somehow, Zayn misses Harry more once he’s actually right beside him.  

“I uh, I didn’t just come bearing delicious snacks,” The younger boy mumbles, becoming curiously interested in the contents of a pulled apart samosa, as if he’s trying to memorise each piece of spiced meat, “There’s other stuff... but it’s- right well it’s about Liam, alright?” 

“Not alright,” Zayn answers immediately, “Not alright Haz, leave it.”  

“I know Zayn, like I know mate. But... I think you’d wanna hear it, I really do.” 

“He’s a cunt. Nowt else to it, Harry- I’m not doing this.” Zayn waves his hands around, trying to shape  _this_  with the air. This being him slipping back into his anger and his bloody woefulness. “It was a mistake alright, Pakistani boys don’t go kissing fucking Nationalists. Soft as their twattin’ eyes may be, yeah?” 

Harry pops the last of a samosa into his mouth, picks a scab from his knuckle and sighs from somewhere deep in the cavern of his chest. Zayn just knows he’s going to say what he came to regardless of his protesting-

“Them soft eyes got blackened to fuck last night, Zayn.” 

“Don’t. Please don’t, Harry. I don’t want to care.” Zayn pleads, but he’s lying to himself and he soon relents to hearing what Harry has to say, resting his head on the younger boy’s shoulder and focusing on a non-descript spot on the white walls.  

“We was over the rec, yeah? It was just like always, Niall brought a footie down, Aiden had another bottle of vodka and Ri and Lou were neck and neck on the goal front again...Louis was pouting over that and it was fucking cute- but anyway. We were gonna back up to the flat, Louis kept saying there was a program on about aardvarks that he wanted to see... but we all got distracted by somethin’ really loud? Like it was the start of an argument but fuck, even from a distance it were scary Zayn.  

“I was pretty sure I could hear Andy in the midst of it and for some reason I wanted to go find him. I don’t know what I thought I was gonna do, Jesus. But we’d had some spliff and I had that vodka in me, yeah? And honestly, we’d all been fucking pining after you so I just thought... Like we’d avenge you or somethin’? They made you cry. You never cry. When did you last come of  _that_  bad in a fight, you know?

“As it turns out, they weren’t far away- just on that courtyard in front of the flats. It were like, it was Andy and Gazza and Smith and some other lads we didn’t know on one side, and Liam on the other. Like on his own, yeah? They were taunting him. Just spewing shit at ‘im, and Andy kept going in like he was gonna nut him but then he’d just end up shoutin’ all over again. All this stuff about Liam being a  _pervert_  and a _faggot_ and  _not fit breathe their air_.  

“We should of done something, we should of gone and been on ‘is side? But that didn’t feel right, not with how he’d hurt you. So we just kept watching until Liam got this... he got this big burst of confidence? Started screamin’ back at ‘em outta nowhere. Something about he hated himself for hiding amongst vermin. He sounded so distressed, he sounded broken to be frank, mate. Then he just let them beat him up. Gazza got him from behind, to hold him in place, and he didn’t even duck away from their punches.”  

As he recounts the previous night, spoken details a little less sordid than his own memories of it, Harry starts to shake and Zayn shakes too- as if the other boy’s trembling is contagious. Harry has his arm locked tight around Zayn’s waist and Zayn has his hand fisted in Harry’s jacket, but neither of them can still it.  

“He... just sort of gave himself up to ‘em, Haz?” Zayn whispers, caring so much more than he ought to. His resolve dissolving.   

“I guess? Yeah.” 

Zayn nods once, tilts his chin up; an admission of giving a fuck, of strength- “Where is he now? Do you know?” 

“That’s the thing... he’s sort of on our settee.” Harry admits, twisting his long fingers together until his knuckles bleach. “We took him to A&E...and then he didn’t wanna go home.”  

“Yeah? I. Right. Well. Will he be there if I get a shower before we go over?”


	7. Chapter 7

One eye hollowed from the deep bruising, skin tinted sickly grey green, the Liam laid out on Harry and Lou’s couch is a shadow of the boy Zayn had fallen for in their cafe booth. Fast asleep, he looks half-dead, the blanket tossed over him his shroud. Zayn’s not sure what he had been expecting, but the helplessness is a sharp catch in his throat. Liam seems so damaged and soft, bundled up in one of Harry’s old cable knit jumpers rather than his collared shirt.

Just a boy, not a skin. 

“Oh Christ,” Zayn mutters from the very edge of the room, voice amplified in the silence. “They got him good, huh?” 

Harry comes up behind him, slips a calming hand up Zayn’s t-shirt to palm over the ridge of his spine, to thumb around to his waist. “I’m going to go make tea, alright? I’ll make him a cup, too, try and wake him up for me.” He whispers, and presses a fierce kiss to the side of his friend’s head before he disappears into the kitchen. 

Zayn is a statue at first, nailed to the one spot of the threadbare carpet. He feels like an intruder despite the flat being his second home because Liam hasn’t granted him the right to see him at his most fragile. So, for a minute that passes like ten times that, Zayn closes his eyes. Under the lull of the darkness that he blinks himself into, he tries to rearrange all of his feelings into something that make sense. Tries to understand all that the one boy has been in the just over a week- from the jeering in the underpass to the arms strong around his chest, from the lick of Liam’s tongue to the toxic drip of the spray paint. The too fresh image of Liam after he’s had his head kicked in. 

When Zayn opens his eyes again [mostly so that he can fumble for a cigarette] that Liam is looking back at him, wearing a painfully childish smile beneath the purple petals of his bruising.  

“Harry said you might come,” He croaks, smile refusing to falter despite the fact that it probably hurts, “Said he’d go grab you after school.”

 Zayn gives Liam a small nod. Hands in his pockets, lump in his throat, “Aye, well he did, mate. How’re you feeling?” 

“Sorry,” Liam says quickly- “Not for myself, I mean- to you. Zayn, I’m so sorry.”  

Zayn pads forwards and folds his legs beneath himself, sliding down to sit in front of the couch. He opens his mouth to tell Liam that it doesn’t matter-  _not right when now when you’re in this state_ \- but he stops himself. It matters and so he accepts it instead, with a gracious bowing nod. 

“Thank you, Liam. I needed that.” He confesses and then he lifts an unsure hand to fiddle with the edge of Liam’s blanket, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”  

Liam is bigger than him, Zayn knows, but he seems to have shrunk. Collapsed in on himself- his blanket waves, him a stone, drowning beneath them. He is grey with tiredness and not entirely unafraid, but he coughs into his hand to clear his throat and smiles again- 

“I sprayed over the stuff on the wall. Harry and Louis said you saw it? That you...you were hurt? Well it’s gone. I went back and I covered it all completely. They’re not my words, Zayn- they’re the words of someone I don’t want to be. I never believed them, I promise, and I never believed the hate they tried to brain wash me with either. I was fucking ‘em off. ‘Cept  _they_  found me doing it, and they wanted to know why.” Liam shrugs and let’s his gaze skip over Zayn’s shoulder, watching the empty doorway instead- “Did Harry say something about a cup of tea?”  

“Yeah- he wont be long. But Liam, love, what did you tell them you were? 

Liam’s eyes slide out of focus, pale beneath the bruising, before they find their way back to Zayn. They’re so much sadder than they’d been in the pub, “The truth, Zayn. Told ‘em I was a queer, gay, whatever you wanna call it. That I look at boys the way I do.” 

“Oh.” Zayn whispers, and then he rocks himself in and brushes his dry lips to the buzzed hair above Liam’s temple, “Brave, that.” 

Liam ducks down and wrinkles his nose- “Not half as brave as you. Weak is what I am, weak enough so that I cracked, actually.”

“It’s not a competition you know, mate? It’s just being the best you that you can be, that’s what it’s gotta be. Being strong, and not just when you throw a punch.” Zayn slides a gentle hand over Liam’s shoulder, light as a breath in case there’s hurt he can’t see beneath the wool; up to grasp his neck and convince him that he means every word he’s speaking, “You know the Sham 69 song, right? If the kids are united, then they’ll never be divided? That’s good to live by, I say. Just use your brain Liam- and keep it safe, cus it ain’t got much protection with your head shaved, eh?”  

“Has philosophical Zayn made his entrance?” Harry interrupts, suddenly crowding over them with huge hands full of hot mugs and the tin of broken biscuits he gets cheap from the bakery, “He’s my favourite Zayn. Such nuggets of wisdom, Liam, I’d listen closely m’lad.”  

Zayn drops his hands quickly and glares up at Harry- “You’re a fuckin’ dick,” He says, voice nothing but fond. 

“A bit,” Harry admits, setting the tea down on the floor beside Zayn and prying open the tin, rooting out a jam and cream something, “But not entirely- I’m meeting Louis at The Swan, he’s going straight from work. So, the flat- yours yeah? There’s cheese and bread if you get hungry, and a couple of cans.”  

Zayn frowns for a second, because his best friends are so lovely, before giving Harry’s calf a good squeeze, “Have fun, yeah? Careful about splinters if you bum in the shed.”  

“That’s fucking beautiful, that is, my dear,” Harry smirks, before he waltzes off and leaves them in peace. 

Zayn stays sat on the floor, nursing his hot tea and watching Liam slurp his own [secretly, up through his eyelashes]. He thinks that Liam is beautiful and he can’t shake the thought. It lays it’s self over him, heavy and true. He likes his smooth angles, the shape of his nose, each hair of his eyebrows; he likes where his neck flows into his shoulders and even his knuckles, threaded through the handle of his mug; he likes the silly grin that comes over the boy when he roots out two chocolate coated halves to make a whole biscuit. 

[He likes the ink splotch bruises, although he knows that he shouldn’t. Thinks of how he’d daydreamed about giving him some himself.] 

Once his tea’s drained, Zayn leans in again. His right hand skims up the arm of the couch, gripping for balance, and his left slips over the blanket, over the pool of it on Liam’s belly. He gathers up a handful of it and basks in the brief exhale of Liam’s warm breath [like a cigarette held too close] before nudging his mouth to the other boy’s; lips already opening, his hand on the couch turning so that he can curl his fingers around the back of Liam’s head. Zayn can’t shake his first sight of Liam- how delicate he had seemed- and so the kiss is gentle. Feathery sweeping tongues and sucking some colour, some life, back into his bottom lip. A kiss like the hot tap over numb hands in Winter.  

Liam is bolder when they break to breathe- “I’m not made of glass, you know, Zayn love. Survived them laying into me, didn’t I? Come ‘ere.” 

So, Zayn slides up over Liam, to sink into the other boy and his jumper and their third kiss is different. It is everything their night in the pub should of become. Eager with the fever of them having had to wait, Liam’s hands seek the pretty body of the boy he’s been awed by for weeks. His hips to hold him in place, the tops of his thighs and higher, the small of his back which is so very wonderfully slight under his wide palms. His tongue, too, wants to own this part of Zayn- the boy in that very moment, who’s quiff has fallen down over his eyes, who’s gone soft especially just for Liam.  

Zayn, who makes appreciate noises when Liam gets distracted and catches him with his teeth. Whispers- “Eh, Liam, how far?”  

The carpet is thin beneath Zayn’s knees when he slides back to the floor. He drags the blanket with him and finds Liam in just his boxers beneath it, licks his lips when he sees. His eyes glittering with obscene intentions. He grips the couch cushions sagging beneath Liam’s weight and ducks down to blow hot breaths against the other boy’s crotch. Already tenting and impressive. Then he sucks through the fabric, tracing the shape of the bulge with this tongue and his lips; tasting precome and feeling the tickle of the teasing trail of hair over the tip of his nose. 

“C’mon, lil Elvis,” Liam encourages, knuckles rubbing over Zayn’s jaw.  

Zayn blinks up at him, long-lashed with his plush lips resting on the waist band of Liam’s boxers. Waits until Liam’s rough knuckles skim his jaw for a second time before he shucks them down and let’s his sweet mouth meet flesh. Open mouthed kisses over the head, tonguing at the very tip; chasing the pulse of Liam’s heart along his shaft until he swallows what he can and hums to accompany it’s beat. Liam’s knuckles unfold so that he can caress the boy below him; feel his own cock as Zayn’s cheeks go concave and his eyes squeeze shut with the effort of undoing Liam completely. He can take an impressive amount of Liam towards his throat, with just a light brim of tears and his hands hooked needfully around Liam’s shins.  

Both of Liam’s hands take to clutching Zayn’s dark hair as the boy below him bobs and he shivers from his tummy to his toes, tugging at it with a grunt- a flurry of curse words: the warning that he’s about to come. Zayn’s never swallowed before and so he sits back on his haunches, pulls off of Liam’s cock with flirty eyes and fists around his length to finish him off. Bites at his own lip when Liam pushes against the back of the couch and releases in waxy ribbons over Zayn’s hand. Another stuttering of  _fuckfuckfuck_ s and  _Zayn_  sounding like a swear, too.  

Afterwards, Zayn wipes off his hand on the blanket and climbs back up over Liam so that they can kiss again. So that Liam’s tongue can sooth his red wrecked mouth, so that Liam can yank down Zayn’s jeans and his boxers and wank him off. It’s hasty, unrefined and perfect. Zayn muffles his moans into the suck of another bruise over Liam’s neck as he bucks into his end; shudders and collapses to snuggle into the nest of his his borrowed jumper, slips his hands up beneath the cuffs of it [after Liam’s reached down to wipe off his hand on the abandoned blanket, too]. Liam is stiff and sore but he doesn’t let it show, just mouths a hundred more sincere sorries into the ruined tangles of Zayn’s hair. 

A little later, they lazily unfurl from one another and chuckle hoarsely through the dawning awareness that they’re half naked in somebody else’s home. Both sloe eyed and dimpled with goosebumps. Zayn asks if Liam would like cheese on toast [and some paracetemol] as he fumbles over the fastening of his jeans and, when it’s finished grilling, they sit flush together on the couch and pretend to watch the television rather than each other’s teeth snapping at strings of cheese. 


	8. Chapter 8

_Three Months Later_  

“I”m really not sure,” Liam insists, crotch bumping to Zayn’s behind as he crowds up behind him on the smelly stone steps they’re climbing. He snakes a hand across Zayn’s hip and belly and dips to kiss just below his earlobe, quick as a wink, “It’s never sounded all that sanitary-” 

“Have any of my limbs fallen off? Have I succumb to gangrene?” Zayn protests. 

“Well no...” 

“And you like mine, right?” 

“Of course,” Liam sighs softly- pausing on the plateau between the second flight of stairs and the third. He turns Zayn so that he can see his face, his beautifully wounded expression, and walks him back up agains the wall, “These,” He takes Zayn’s hands in his, marvels for just a moment on how easily it is for him to fold his fingers around Zayn’s whole palms, and then kisses the other boy’s ink; his sweet swallow and  _ying yang_ symbol below the knob of his wrist, “And these,” Liam pinches the thin cotton of Zayn’s t-shirt to tug the neckline below his collar bone, lips brushing the arabic and the  _Friday?_  too, “Are beautiful.”  

Zayn blinks, all slow and pretty, and cocks is head as he smiles some- “Thanks, love.” He murmurs, distracted from his argument by the bow of Liam’s lips. 

“You’re entirely welcome- now come on, last time we were late they made sex jokes for the first forty minutes of the night.”

Zayn quirks his eyebrow and his smile slides into something more like a smirk. Filth. “We  _were_ late because you really like me in that denim jacket, though- the one I hacked the sleeves off!” 

“Shut up, you terrible thing! Get up them stairs!” Liam admonishes- biting back both a laugh and a blush, but he can’t bite back the wet kiss he presses over Zayn’s pursed lips before he knots their fingers and drags him up the last of the steps. 

Louis and Harry’s door opens before Liam’s even raised his fist to knock and Louis leaps out at them. A sudden firework in the the expanse of grey, he’s wearing a big beaming smile and rather a lot of Rita’s shimmery make up: frosted lilac streaks against his cheekbones, blocks of pink above his eyes, a ring of black pencil below his lower lash line. Glitter too, Zayn thinks- though there isn’t much light for it to catch in the doorway. Below that, there are ruffles, frothing and framed by sparkling lapels.

“Gosh, is that Prince Charming?” Liam gasps, somewhere between wonder and fear. [He’s very fond of Zayn’s friends- they’re his friends now- but he sometimes feels out of place, still. They’re all quite  _expressive_.]  

Louis seems to think that the only appropriate response to such a question is an Adam Ant impression [ _Prince Charming! Prince Charming! Ridicule is nothing to be scared of!_ ] which he does really rather well- remembering all of the choreographed arm movements, before his arms encircle Liam and Zayn, instead. 

“Rita and Perry made me all pretty,” He tells them with endearing pride, “There was lipstick too... but now that’s sort of all around Hazza’s mouth- Hazza! Come show Zayn and Liam me lipstick!”  

Harry appears, a stumbling drunk draped in great swathes of plastic pearls, fingers around the necks of two wine bottles. Louis’ lipstick, an iridescent purple, is now a smeared stain over his mouth and chin. “Have you seen my boy! Lookin good, huh?” Is the first thing he says and then, “I love you two! You comin’ in now?” 

If Louis was one firework, their living room is the entire display. There are the usual faces- Niall and Perrie, white blond and dancing wildly; Rita- spinning so that her skirts hover like a helicopter; Aiden looking beautifully sombre to impress a beautifully maudlin girl. But there are strangers and vague acquaintances draped over all of the rotting furniture, too. Latex, lycra, leather made into armor with hundreds of conical studs; hair high enough to almost skim the ceiling and it’s cloud of weed smoke and hairspray. Zayn lights up a fag and swivels his hips to the punk song playing, admiring all of it. It’s neon decay.   

“Oh,” Liam exhales- before his veined arm locks tightly around his boy’s waist, glowering back at people who glance across at Zayn and the way his cheeks sink when he sucks at his cigarette. “Drinks?” 

“Good idea,” Zayn agrees- grabbing one of the wine bottles from Harry as he wobbles past them- “This do for now?”

Zayn perches on the the edge of a table and Liam sets himself between his parted legs- subconsciously shielding him from view. Zayn still doesn’t much like the wine, but it slides down easy enough- between drags from his cigarette and bouts of giggly snogging. Tastes less like vinegar when he’s licking it from Liam’s mouth, sucking it’s split berry juice from Liam’s tongue and having Liam pour it into his waiting mouth. Tipping quick, so that Zayn’s throat has to undulate like it does when he’s giving him head, until a rivulet escapes. It glistens candy apple red over the gold of Zayn’s skin. Obscene over his swollen lips, begging for Liam to chase it back with his tongue.  

Liam grips at Zayn’s thighs and then his hips, guiding him up from the table so that they can dance together. Most people are pogoing [and no doubt the old bag below will bang up against the ceiling with her broom] but the boys grind. Out of time with the music but following each other’s heart beats, the shuddering guitar strums of their deep breaths exhaled against shoulders.  

“You’re the hottest thing here,” Liam whispers- staring at Zayn, enthralled- “Whole fucking flat and you’re all mine.” 

“Shut up you soppy twat,” Zayn skims his thumb against Liam’s top button, his throat- lashes lowered coyly, “Thanks though.”  

“You’re welcome.” Liam assures Zayn- giving him a fleeting, adorable smile before they’re rudely interrupted by Louis gifting Harry’s multiple strings of beads to Zayn- 

“Pirate booty! Ahoy!” He informs them both, rustling the pearls so that they crackle- “Also, mine and Harry’s bedroom is uh... free. Ex marks the spot! Oh oh and! Pull on them Liam, it’s good.”  

Zayn rides Liam on Harry’s bed as Bowie’s  _Rebel Rebel_ plays in the next room and rolling above him- coffee coloured in the low light, shoot through with bone white from the pearls- he looks like something born from the singer’s imagination. Face of an angel but not nearly pure enough, with his snaking hips. He is erotic art. He is a writhing, tight whore- intentionally and especially for Liam and Liam is free to touch every inch of him. The curve of his behind, the bitable inners of his thighs, his abs as Zayn works them hard. Score them with his nails and leave the possessive imprint of his hands every time Zayn sits deeper and they both grit screams through their teeth.  

Liam takes the necklaces in one hand Zayn’s erection in the other, stroking fast and tugging hard; alternating between watching the beads of pearly precome leaking from Zayn’s cock and the beads choking him as he thrusts up like a beast’s taken over his body. A little more force for each of Zayn’s raspy pleads-  _Liam, Liam, shit, oh please_. Zayn becomes a demon for it- sweat drenched, bouncing like a porn star. Liam thinks that he could cry, but he orgasms instead; scrapes his nails against Zayn’s fleshy sides until he’s clutching him, keeping him in place, and ramming up to release inside of him.  

As he explodes, he goes in for a biting kiss- more greed than romance, and yanks on the pearls one last time. Hard enough for their many elastics to snap. To send hundreds of milky beads spraying and falling like rain. They scatter noisily over the floor and roll over their trembling bodies, collect where they meet, and are sticky with Zayn’s come within moments.  

“That.... that might of been our best fuck yet....” Liam whispers, voice torn up. 

“Mhmmm,” Zayn agrees, arching in to lay his cheek against the juncture between Liam’s throat and chest, “Let me ink you in the morning?” 

Liam slips his eyes closed and spanks Zayn half-heartedly, “Yeah, yeah- okay. Sleep, or back to the party?” 

“Hmmm, party I think,” Zayn skims his long fingers against Liam’s jaw. 

When they return [Zayn in Harrys  _Fuck Maggie_  shirt since, they used his as a cloth] everything has died down. Mostly only familiar faces about: some entangled couples and friends sat in a circle on the floor, swaying absently to music and blowing weed smoke through conversation. They find a spot between Rita and Niall and settle with Zayn in Liam’s lap, Liam’s fingers splayed against Zayn’s stomach. Everything is soft, and some people cry whilst other’s reminisce, but mostly, they just appreciate what is. Their youth and their friends and the dreams they toss about with rolling eyes. 

“I’m glad you’re one of us now,” Louis says to Liam- whilst they’re on the subject of old parties, old fist fights, “You’ve proved yourself, I think.”  

“Aye!” Harry agrees, “You’re a good guy. Good enough for Zayn now. Are you getting your cross on your ankle tomorrow, when we all do?” 

Once morning rolls around, it’s just Zayn’s core group of friends left. Stiff from sleeping on the floor and horrendously hungover but happy, too, because the sky is bright beyond the window and the room is full of bleary eyed love. After hugs and  _morning, duck_ s they are content to battle through their headaches with copious cups of tea and a bacon sandwiches, before they all pile into Harry and Louis’ bedroom [Liam having changed the bedsheets out of courtesy]. Get to tattooing. A newly boiled needle for each of them; a couple of pots of ink; socks rolled down and jeans rolled up.  

Zayn puts the needle to Liam’s ankle first and although it barely takes any time, it’s lovely to do. Especially when he can see the others from the corner of his eye, adding the same tiny ‘x’ to one another. A collectively held breath and their hearts swelling because as small as each of the tattoos are, they mean the world. Everything that’s ever gone unspoken in the rain outside of a pub, in the plastic chairs of a hospital waiting room or during a clinging hug, summed in the two swipes of indian ink. Like a penned kiss.

Liam is shy with the his rig, having to blow out a slow breath until it steadies in his hand.  _Dots, just dots_ , Zayn assures him, rubs over his shaved head for luck. Presses his lips to his nose and then gives him one of those smiles, with his tongue behind his teeth and little wrinkles around his eyes,  _come on, love_. Niall hugs him from behind, and Harry puts a tape in the cassette player, and Liam’s courage blooms from somewhere as the ink blooms up through the thread. He curls his left hand around Zayn’s calf and begins. 

As he works, Liam speaks along to the song playing. Just below his breath, but Zayn reads his lips- 

_Just take a look around you_

_What do you see ?_

_Kids with feelings like you and me_

_You understand him, he'll understand you_

_For you are him, and he is you_  

_If the kids are united they will never be divided_

_If the kids are united they will never be divided_  

_I don't want to be rejected_

_I don't want to be an unknown_

_As long as we stand together_

_Well it will just be the start_  

And Zayn’s in love, he realises, as he watches Liam’s beautiful pink mouth shape each of the words. It’s nothing melodramatic; there’s no fist to his heart. He just loves Liam, loves him like he loves fish and chips and tea and cheap beer and playing footie on the rec at night. So he says it-  _love you, Li_ \- he says, and Liam says  _I love you too, Elvis_. Then their day carries on as expected. Chain smoking and street walking and piling up in The Swan’s shed to get pissed, together; sitting on the curb outside the pub, just the two of them, watching the night sky and squeezing each other’s thighs. Gutters and stars. 


End file.
